


stickers on my suit(y)case

by blueink3



Series: siblings or something [1]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Comfort, Family, Fluff, Gen, Missing Scene, Siblings, spoilers for 6x01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:47:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22178788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueink3/pseuds/blueink3
Summary: "Shouldn’t you be, like, sucking up to the in-laws or something?”He pauses and eyes the bags he just dragged from his car. For her.Oh.Or, Alexis and Patrick have a little chat.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer & Alexis Rose, Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Series: siblings or something [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1678900
Comments: 131
Kudos: 614





	stickers on my suit(y)case

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sullymygoodname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sullymygoodname/gifts).



> With apologies to Daniel Radcliffe.

She wiggles her sore toes in her Ugg slippers and stares at the crack in the pavement beneath the green, plastic bowl-chair-thingy, which is vile and an assault on the senses and far more comfortable than it has any right to be. Her sigh is audible, despite the fact that no one is around to hear it, and she picks at the paint on the back of her phone case, trying to figure out what exactly it is that she’s feeling. 

It’s… weird. It’s too many feelings at once, like that time she stuck her hand in a bowl full of pills at Nicole Richie’s quinceañera and popped them back like they were Tic-Tacs. Her emotions _wildly_ ping-ponged for a solid three hours before she curled up in a Backstreet Boy’s lap for a cat nap that ended up lasting until morning. 

It would be so much easier if she could pinpoint it. Then she could at least convincingly pretend like everything was fine. 

“Hey,” someone says, and she looks up to find Patrick leaning against the wall, arms crossed across his chest. His forearms are impressive; she has to congratulate David on that.

Her family’s voices carry around the corner from the table, bickering about… cole slaw? Cornstarch? Cole Sprouse? Whatever. 

“Hi,” she replies, trying to find her winningest smile and knowing she’s falling way short of the mark. Like, Daniel Radcliffe levels of short. 

He doesn’t call her out on it, though. Just pushes off the wall and walks over, shoving his hands into pockets that defy the laws of space and physics.

“Need help with these?” he asks, nodding at the suitcases stilled strapped to the roof of his car. 

She should probably thank him for that, for securing her possessions so carefully, but then she remembers that she basically had to resort to extortion to get David to agree to take her, and she bites it back. Even though it’s not _Patrick’s_ fault that her brother is such a gargoyle. 

Well, not completely. He’s certainly contributed enough to his rising levels of smugness. 

“Guess so.” 

He gives that lil perfunctory nod that looks so cute and competent on his shoulders as he steps forward and begins undoing the ties holding down all her worldly possessions. It’s weird to think that she didn’t worry about them going flying all over the road before now. She’s losing her edge. 

Or just gaining trust in Patrick’s ability to pack a car. 

“So why are you hiding over here?” he asks too-casually, lowering one suitcase to the ground before reaching up for the other. 

“I’m not _hiding._ ”

“Still scarred by the indecent exposure?” 

“Ew, don’t remind me,” she snaps, and he grins as he lowers the second suitcase and reaches into the backseat for the rest. “Why are _you_ here?” she deflects. “Shouldn’t you be, like, sucking up to the in-laws or something?” 

He pauses and eyes the bags he just dragged from his car. For her. 

Oh. 

“Yes, well…” She picks at the paint some more, searching for words that are annoyingly elusive. Like Joaquin Phoenix during his beard phase. 

“What, do you have a dead body in here?” he jokes, saving her from herself because he’s a button like that as he hauls the largest of the bags onto the sidewalk. 

“Not in _that_ one,” she replies. 

He stills and she grins slyly. After all, he should know what he’s signing up for.

“You know, I really wouldn’t put it past you,” he says, and she preens, flipping her hair over her shoulder. 

It hasn’t gotten quite _that_ bad yet, but there have been a few near misses. Still, she’ll take the compliment. 

“Do you want these in the room?” 

“Sure,” she chirps, watching him maneuver the first one over the threshold, but the sight of her belongings making their way back to the place she thought she wouldn’t see again for the next six months brings her down faster than a shot of naloxone.

He works silently, and she lets him. Poor thing probably needed a break from the insanity around the corner. Whatever. He’s the one crazy enough to marry into this merry band of lunatics. Serves him right. 

She wiggles her toes again - those shoes really were painful - and stares at the sun dipping behind the treeline, vaguely wondering how long it takes to lizard-proof an apartment. She zones out for a while, long enough for Patrick to finish with the suitcases and pull the white plastic chair over to join her. 

“You’re not going back to the picnic?” 

Patrick makes a noise that she’s definitely heard David make before - high-pitched and usually annoying, but he makes it work. Makes it endearing, even. “David started a heated debate with your father about pasta salad and then your mother chimed in with a story about a bolognese that Rex Harrison once made for her, and well... ”

“You needed to hide too?” she asks. 

“Yup.” He leans forward with a groan (those jeans _really_ can’t be comfortable) and rests his elbows on his knees. 

She wants to make another joke about him joining the family, about the fact that this is what the next twenty to thirty years of his life look like and that’s just while their parents are still alive. Then he’s got the rest of his days with _David,_ and really, if anyone deserves a drink, it’s Patrick. Yes, she’s queuing up a whole barrage of advice and warnings and anecdotes when he says - 

“I’m really sorry your trip didn’t work out.” 

Oh.

“It will,” she replies with a little head nod. “August 7th.” She checked three times.

“Still,” he says with a little shrug. “It’s disappointing.” 

She swallows hard. She spent months working herself up to this and was finally looking forward to it, or to at least seeing Ted again if not the iguanas, but her passport will have to wait for its next stamp. “It is.” She can't bear to admit that she's a little relieved as well. Admitting it makes it true and she's not doing that at the moment. This isn't group therapy at rehab.

She finally looks at him and he’s staring at her like he sees through her. But not in a scary, time-to-get-out-of-the-palazzo kind of way. In a warm way. A comforting way. And she finds the admission tumbling from her lips before she can stop to think if it’s a good idea or not:

“I thought I’d be seeing Ted today,” she murmurs and he nods. 

“I know.” 

“I miss him.” That _is_ the truth. No therapy needed. 

A warm palm comes up and presses between her shoulder blades, gently rubbing back and forth. She leans into it and sighs. Quiet, this time; not seeking attention. His palm stays there, smoothing constant circles, steady but soft. It reminds her of Adelina, when wretched David wasn't monopolizing her time. 

She remembers then that Patrick loves her brother. He loves her brother _so_ much (not that they ever let anyone forget it, with their constant necking). But it never occurred to her that loving her brother might actually mean loving her, too. 

“I do want to be here for the wedding,” she whispers because she’s honestly worried her voice will do something weird and horrific if she speaks any louder. 

“I know that,” he says, like he’s surprised she felt the need to admit it. 

“But does David?” She turns to him in time to see understanding cross his lil face. To see affection flood his big, loud eyes. 

“Alexis, I don’t pretend to comprehend the… _unique_ sibling dynamic the two of you have,” he starts with a fond if tentative smile, “but he really wants you to be a part of this. He wants - he wants you to critique his moodboards and go to suit fittings with him and berate his song choices. He wants you here, sure. But above all - he wants you _happy._ ” He squeezes her shoulder, and his expression looks like something out of Mr. Rogers or an after-school special, but it’s not cloying like it should be. “We both do.” 

She hasn’t experienced a lot of sincerity in her life, but she’ll have to keep an eye out, now that she knows what it looks like. 

Groaning and ducking her head, she gently shoulder-checks him to hide the fact that she’s tearing up. “Button.” 

He chuckles at the nickname and nudges her right back. “He knows you don’t want to miss your only brother’s wedding.” 

“You’re wrong,” she hums, smiling slowly, like she knows something he doesn’t. Like she has a secret she _might_ be willing to share, for the right price. 

He sits back, non-existent eyebrows trying to find his hairline, poor thing. “I am?” 

She sighs and leans her head on his shoulder, thinking that she could get used to this. To reaching for comfort and knowing it won’t be thrown back in her face like Harry Styles’ sweaty scarf at a One Direction concert. 

“He’s not my only brother.”


End file.
